


Smiling at Dirt

by nanailliterate



Category: The Beatles
Genre: F/M, I didn't put any warnings for death because technically everyone is already dead, M/M, Mentions of Death, be warned, but i mean there is, but its not sad, happyish at least, its happy, shouldnt be interpreted as sad either!, theres feels and crying
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-20
Updated: 2016-12-20
Packaged: 2018-09-10 14:50:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8921323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nanailliterate/pseuds/nanailliterate
Summary: Paul has had all the closure he needed, given the circumstances. He's done what he needs to do to heal, to forgive some and not forgive others, and to move on. Maybe he has, but to him, moving on doesn't necessarily mean filling holes as you pass them, maybe it means skipping over them.





	

The morning light had barely begun to settle into the room. With the curtains pulled back and nothing to stop the offending light, it seemed like Paul was just begging the morning to come and catch he and his sleeping partner from the bed. Though in Paul's case, he was about as asleep as a rooster at the break of dawn.

It had been a happy night that night. He and Nancy had celebrated their newfound love and upcoming marriage. The date night had been both lovely and simple, elegant in a way that wasn't over the top, just the way Paul liked it most of the time. He thinks its a quality he obtained from Linda, with her simple beauty that was anything but, to him. He missed Linda, he will say, even when he was strumming the guitar that was serenading his  fiancee. He loved Nancy, he was completely and utterly sure, but he also knows that there is no comparison between his late wife and soon to be. It had been the same last time too. The vows he dedicated to Heather that day also contained a little promise to Linda,  _ You know I'll always love you, even now._ And really, the promise was quite easy to keep, for the love still grew and lived on, although his beloved did not.

Paul lets out a sigh, so soft he's not sure he even made it. Stretching in the bed with its silk sheets and light blue fabric, he grits his teeth. Days like these were hard. His friends jibe him in the ribs and tell him he feels like this because he's getting old; self-reflecting in his old age and letting his own thoughts bring himself down too much. It's probably true, but it's still hard to look at your old face in the mirror and wonder if you even deserve it.

So yeah, days like these were hard. Thinking about love was hard, not all the time, but on days like these. He remembers the days when all he would, could,  _ wanted _ to think about was love and ways to give and receive it. He was stuffed full with love as young man like a turkey on Thanksgiving, and even through the years beyond that. He was so certain he was going to have his 'When I'm Sixty Four' and his 'Obla Di Obla Da' and all the other carefree melodies that he, with a little help, came up with in the throngs of adolescence and adulthood. After all, that's the way it was supposed to be, Christ. Wasn't a certain important and self-pronounced all-knowing male the one who said  all you need is love?

Paul's breath hitches a few times as he sits up, lifting the suffocating fabric away from him. He can't stand to be in that bed, he hates those blue sheets. He wants the white ones again, he wants her smell again. He wants his friend again. He wants his unknown, his regret, and his desires.

Paul, on this brisk morning, is angry. Love was supposed to be it. All you need is love, all he n eeded was love, and he believed that. Fuck.

But love can't stop bullets, can't it Johnny, nor can it defeat cancer, nor nurse a broken heart when the heart had been emptied by outside forces. All his love died, a piece of his heart here, here, and here.

There's a bitter taste in his mouth he's sure wasn't there a moment ago. With a hand around his throat in a loose grasp, he tries to get the horrid taste out of his mouth, opening and closing his mouth like a fish out of water, licking his lips, anything to get the taste out.  _ Linda, my dear _ , he thinks as he quietly gets out of bed and heads to the bathroom,  _ there's a bitter taste in my mouth that wasn't there a moment ago _ . He runs the faucet for the cold water, cups his hands, and takes a drink. The taste isn't gone, but its better.

Paul stares at his reflection, angry.  _ John, you asked me to think about you every now and again, was this what you wanted, love? _ , he shakes as he says it to himself in his head. He doesn't even notice that he had shut and locked the bathroom door until its done. Then he turns back to the mirror.  Look at the lines and wrinkles on my face Johnny, look how old I am. He takes a deep, shuddering breath,  _ Look how old you're  _ not. Not fair, it's not fair.

Paul continues to stare, angry.  _ Linda, my dear, it's not fair. Look how many lives you've saved, people you've helped, including our children. Including my own, my dear, when my love passed. My God- how can I go on without you? _ He dips his head in shame,  _ I'm not strong enough. I loved you, I love you. It's not fair, I love you. _

_ George, my sweet friend, it's not fair, is it? Why does nothing seem to be fair? _ when Paul thinks of George, he can still see his lanky frame and blinding smile.  _ I'm trying so hard, old friend, I really am. George, it's just not fair. _

Moisture threatens to stream down his cheeks, it's already pooling in his eyes. It's hard, these days. Sometimes it's sorrow, sometimes it's anger. Sometimes its both, when he allows himself to have both.

Paul stares at his reflection, angry.  _ I thought you were supposed to be the leader, John? _ even in his head, it practically cuts through walls,  _ Why would you move to New York anyway? What happened to the John that mocked America? _ Damn, the first tear has fallen.  _ Why would you leave me, darling? Leave the love, the passion, our bond? To the toppermost, you promised. Where are you now Johnny, where are you? How could you let yourself get killed? You left me, I loved you. I loved you, and you left me. _

The tears come falling down after that, no regard and no hurdles to pass, they flow freely down his face. It's so hard, some days. He collapses to his knees, rests his arms on the bathroom counter and cradles his head in the crook of his elbow, and weeps for his love, his wife, and his friend.

_ I loved you all. I needed you all_ _._ He thinks. He feels pathetically helpless, alone. But he's already done his crying. He's done a lifetime of it. He cried into Linda's lap when John died, cried into George's thin shoulder when Linda died, and - thankfully - had both George and Ringo to cry with since George's death was gloomily expected.

He sniffles a few times to get himself together. He rubs his eyes like a child, breathing in and out slowly, slowly. Slowly, he stands back up and looks at his reflection, emotionless.

He grabs his robe off the hinge to shield himself for the morning cold. He's always liked mornings for the fresh, cool air they provided. But today it's very chilly, the cold feels like dry ice on wet lips, he needs warmth.

He ties the robe strings around his waist and quietly escapes from the prison cell he was in moments ago. Instead of retiring back to bed like he should, he heads downstairs. Passing a combination of old and new pictures of friends, family, he goes into the kitchen. The liquor cabinet is a tad on the low side, since there had been much to celebrate recently, but he eventually finds something that will suffice. Paul pours his drink like a man in hiding, cautiously checking for his fiancee to come down and say _'_ _w_ _hy are you drinking this early? Can't be good for your health, well brush your teeth before you kiss me with that taste in there.'  _ He chuckles quietly, she's a good woman. A good woman in general, a good woman for Paul.

The bar on the island has chairs too cold and lonely, so he opts to sit on the couch instead, warm and big. He groans a little as he sits, feeling an ache in his back he gets almost every time he wakes up from a deep sleep without stretching properly.

Paul sips his drink gingerly, not feeling like he's in any rush even though he knows Nancy likes to rise with the morning - it can't be too long now. He feels like nothing can move him right now, like he's in a bubble. The idea of his fiancee coming down and cooking breakfast and making conversation and just continuing life doesn't feel real at the moment.

Paul closes his eyes in a moment of simple calm, it's not like he's in a state of relaxation, but its not quite like he's numb. It's simply Paul's alone time, with Paul being the main attraction this morning, ladies and gentleman. Or, at least, that's his reasonable thoughts of how the morning would be played out.

'Well aren't you a new kind of wrong.' A gruff voice chuckles to his right. Paul turns slowly, expecting it because he knows the voice but not expecting it either because it's impossible. But the face looking back, the eyes capturing his, it's all there. He's so young, his hair still cut short - or well, long in those days - black hat on his head, cool black jeans on his legs. It's very 1965, maybe even 1966. It's one of Paul's favorite looks on him, young, sarcastic, and happy.

"John," he whispers, sounding breathless even to his own ears. Photos really don't compare to the real thing, they don't compliment him right, he just now realizes. God, he's so much better than he imagined. His memory doesn't recall his features with such accuracy, so much detail. Paul can't help but stare.

'Easy boy, you must be triple my age!' He grins. 'Hitting the rocks a bit early, hm?' He raises an eyebrow at the drink that's currently being clutched with a strength Paul didn't know he possessed.

"Oh, uh," Paul says, elegant and all, "T-Thirsty." John's keeps up an unamused gaze, but eventually a smile finally makes his way across his face.

'Ah, well I can't judge. Lord knows I've done worse in my time.' It annoys Paul a little that John didn't say  _our_ time.  But he won't comment on it.

"John, I missed you so much." He wants to reach out to touch, but he doesn't think he can. The risk of John evaporating right before his eyes is too much, that would be too painful.

A soft smile slowly makes his way to the older - though he looks quite younger now - man's face. 'I missed you too, Macca.'

'Well aren't I feeling a tad bit lonely over here.' Lovely voice, Paul thinks first, before it clicks.

He snaps his head in the opposite direction of John and sees Linda, sitting there with a careful smile. "Oh my God," he gasps, "Linda." The urge is so strong, but he keeps his hands to himself.

'Hi, Paul.' She says softly, eyes glistening, smiling coyly. 'Been a while.'

'Yes, yes, it's all been very long since we've seen our Paul.' John quips quickly before Paul can manage to say anything. He pretends to inspect a nail, even though Paul can easily see a playful smirk on his lips. 'We really must make these trips down more often.'

Linda, to his surprise, laughs at him, unreserved and hearty. 'John, we're not trying to put him in a psychiatric ward now, are we, love?'

'You're right, this one visit will be enough to do that.'

'Now, now.' That's a new voice, not John's, definitely not Linda's. Paul's eyes gaze forward, resting his sights on his best friend and, practically, brother.

Now his eyes really do start tearing up again. "George," he whispers simply. Paul doesn't really know how George has this effect on him, how just the sight of his young friend can render him in tears like nobody else can, but he feels like he can just collapse into the younger boys arms right now. "George, I'm so sorry, I should have protected you. You were so young, I should've told you not to do it - not to take them-"

'What, cigarettes?' George snorts, but its without malice judging by the smile and way his eyes shine. 'If you had told me in those early years to stop smoking, I'm pretty sure I would have doubled my intake.' He laughs lightly, 'Never cared much for being told what to do, I didn't. Besides, we both know that it was a lot more than just simply cigarettes.'

Paul swallows with difficulty and takes a large gulp of his drink (if the bottle gave him his friends, he'll drink for a little while longer. Toast to that and cheers). He looks around at his favorite people, their faces. They look as if they don't have a care in the world, they're young, they're wise, and their love is all directed at Paul. Guilt settles in his stomach for more reasons than one.

"I- I should have saved you. All of you, I should have  _ done _ something. Anything," he weeps softly, cursing himself for it, "And I'm getting married, again. I'm getting married to someone that's not you," he looks at Linda, "I'm going to be loving someone that's not you," this time he looks at John, "How can you even look at me?" His watery appearance pleads to them all, asking them all for their forgiveness, their opinions, even their wrath. He  just wants something.

The room is silent for what feels like an eternity to Paul, he can't meet any of their gazes now. Finally there's a hand resting on his shoulder supplied by John, and a voice in his ear spoken by Linda.

'There's nothing to be sorry about, absolutely nothing.' She says earnestly.

'Except maybe for that failed second marriage to that Feather girl.' John snorts.

Paul lets out a laugh that sounds more like a gasp or a hiccup, "Heather," he corrects, just to be able to correct John one more time.

'Same thing,' John grins, now that Paul's eyes seemed to be locked with his.

George, the lovely git, breaks the moment. 'So you keeping that hairstyle then?' He says it in a way that if Paul closes his eyes, he can picture them in his old family house, sitting on the couch and eating some kind of food, teasing Paul about the many hairstyles he had tried out that best suited being a rocker.

"Yeah, think I am. That black hair doesn't really fit me anymore." He chuckles, eyes finding it hard to leave the sight of his best friend.

Linda rests her head on his shoulder. 'I like it this way,' she twists a lock of his hair in her hand gently. It feels so real. He looks over at her and his breath hitches. Now that his mind has cleared up a bit, he notices that she looks exactly like the way she did when they first met. Same clothing and everything. He doesn't know how he remembers, or even if he remembered before all this and maybe this experience is renewing his memory, but he certainly does remember now.

"You're so beautiful." He whispers, "I miss you so much." He sits back in his seat, looking at the three ghosts. "I miss all of you so much."

'Miss you too, Paulie.' John smiles, no sarcasm in his voice, no smirk on his face.

"Take me with you." Paul says quickly, sitting back up. He feels frantic, like if he isn't able to go with them, if he has to say goodbye to all of them  _ again_, Christ, he'd just die. "Please, please."

John gives him a sympathetic look, 'I happen to know that you know that you can't come with us.'

'Not yet, anyway,' George pipes up.

"Oh really. And how do you know that, John?" Paul asks.

'Because I know, that's how.'

"Uh-huh. And how?" Paul questions.

'And how.' John states, nodding his head in a playfully grim way. Paul rolls his eyes, fairly sure he just saw the front of his brain.

Linda pets his hair, 'Its not your time to go yet, sweetie. Everyone has a time.' She says, a million more helpful than John.

This somehow makes Paul furious, just like when he was looking at his reflection. "It wasn't your time either! It was none of your times. Not you, you," he lets out a soft weep, "and God especially not you." He places hands on John's chest where he knows - from countless nights of obsession - the bullet wounds had once been. He maybe expects to feel them now, the holes that tore his best friend apart and made him no more but records and posters and a legendary name. He doesn't, he just feels a solid chest under his hands, a complete man.

'Everything happens for a reason,' John replies lamely, placing his hands over Paul's. Paul hates that fucking quote, he suspects John knows that too.

"Yeah, except sometimes the reason is that the universe is stupid and makes bad decisions." He draws his eyebrows down.

'Bad decisions were once reasons too, weren't they?'

Paul swallows, knowing that there's nothing left to argue. "I'm going to miss you when we say goodbye."

'Don't say it then, we'll always be with you.' Linda says. Paul wants to laugh at how adorable and cliche she sounds.

"Is that so, right here in my heart?" He points.

'Course not. In your pelvis, son.' John rolls his eyes. Paul wants to offer him a drink.

George laughs, throws his head back and almost roars with it. Paul's never heard such a melody sound as sweet before.

"So, none of you are mad at me?" He says it in a way that makes him feel very childish. He doesn't really mind.

'Course not,' George shakes his head, the other two nodding along.

"So much drama went on between us," he looks at George and John for this, recalling John's purposefully hurtful words and George's unintentionally hurtful ones. "I thought - felt - like you hated me at times. Even when we made up and were  _ just starting _ to get close again, John, before that day when it all stopped. And even when I sat with you in the hospital, George, saying our goodbyes."

'That's one thing I don't miss all that much, human emotion and its pettiness.' John reflects, 'Clouds everything up, it does. Makes everything feel like the end of the world, Paulie. None of that matters though, does it?'

Paul shakes his head, "No, no it doesn't."

John smiles, 'That's right.'

"I miss you," Paul can't help but say again. His friend has been gone for more than thirty years now. The number of times he should and wants to declare his  _ I miss you _ 's are unlimited, but the value doesn't get diluted with frequency. They probably never will. He's missed having these conversations with John. As wild and passionate as John was - is, evidently - he knows how to put things in perspective. He knows how to turn dialogue into poetry.

'Course you did,' John smirks, resting his hand on Paul's cheek. Paul instinctively comes forward, resting his forehead on John's, glad to feel he's still there and tangible. 'You're so beautiful, Paul. When I look at you now, I see the way I looked at you before. All dark black hair, button nose, and sleepy eyes.' Paul feels himself flush, having not had anyone say something like that to him in that way. Women were different, they spoke differently, definitely more reserved, and complimented differently, noticed things differently. This was John and he notices differently. He's bold and doesn't apologize for the things he says, nor for the way that people take them. Paul smiles, but can't bring himself to say anything in return for a moment.

He wonders if what John's saying is true. "You do?" He asks curiously, he almost wants to get up and go to the mirror, wants to see himself so young.

John nods his head, 'Peas in a pod, we look.'

Paul turns his head to the side, not enough to shake John's hand away, but enough to look comfortably at his wife. "How do you see me, Linda?"

She smiles and her eyes glaze over like she's recalling a fond memory, 'You're somewhere in the mid to late  '80s, hair having gone more to the brown side and leaving it a little long. It's when things started to calm down and our family was beginning to feel consistent. The children old enough to play with, watching them grow older.' He watches as she meets John's eyes briefly, the two smiling at each other before John casts his gaze over at George.

'Well, how about you? I'm sure Paul's on ends to know how you see him, having known him the longest.'

George shrugs with a lazy shoulder. 'Sometimes I see you even before the teddy boy, sometimes I see you as the old geezer holding my hand. Doesn't stay with me, not really.'

Paul feels his heart tighten in a way he didn't think he'd enjoy, but does. It's so George, having this myopic view that is able to see things in a way that others do not. He's glad that's the way it is, and he realizes that he's had some of his fondest memories with each of them as the man they remember.

Paul's head is turning into a movie theater, the roll of film playing as the lights dim. However, this time there's no one to watch it. Paul doesn't want to reminisce at the moment, he wants to be in it. This is as close as it gets, they're all here. He needs to be present.

John's hand stroking his hair helps him climb out of the hole he almost buried himself into. Memory lane can wait.

John brings their faces closer, shuffling closer, moving slowly. It's too slow for Paul, way too slow, it's not enough, but he stays still and waits for John to move despite the desperation he feels in his blood. Little by little, John finally collides with Paul's world, sealed lips with a kiss. It's like a dam is broken, water pouring out too quickly, too powerful. Paul sighs so heavily that John pulls away for a second, wrinkling his nose in distaste. 'Charming,' he says with a blink, before he pulls them back in again.

It should be weird. Having this moment with John while Linda is watching, then after having a moment with Linda while John is watching, and poor George watching this whole thing. But, Paul notices with a sigh of relief, it's not. It all fits, somehow. He's with his love, all of them.

John was the love that was too much and yet not enough. Like a kettle boiling for too long, the bubbles tipping over the edge and the steam shooting out of the tunnel, yet the water evaporates inside. It was a love that was suffocating. It intoxicated Paul without him even having to take a sip. He was a need, he was an addiction he didn't even partake in. It was too much foreplay, then falling asleep before the release. Paul remembers a time when it scared him, the connection, how it seemed like he was seeping and transforming into John, and it terrified him. He was too much, John was, and not enough. He feels like enough now, now that his lips are on Paul's. He wonders, in a sardonic kind of way, if this was all that was needed to save themselves all those years ago. If a kiss, a confession, could have kept John right where he wanted him. There's a gut feeling in Paul that tells him his answer. Anyway, there's no need to think of that now. Paul doesn't care anymore. He has what he needs now.

Linda, she was the love that was in balance. She was his healthiest addiction, probably. If John was heroin - strong, lasting, captivating - then she was probably an addiction to brushing teeth, maybe, an addiction to calling your mother at 7:30 every night after dinner to make sure she was okay. She was a softer, safer habit; but God was she still an addiction; one that Paul needed to survive. His withdrawal from her would have ended him the moment it happened. John took his breath away and Linda gave it back. He hates to think of it that way, an addiction, like he is only complete with both of them, tipping him one way and then another so he never falls to one side, but its the only way to describe it properly. He feels like a bobble head in a car, John being the bumpy road and Linda being the sturdy car. They're both good though, the road and the car, for without one, he would be defeated, nothing to keep his head moving or his feet steady. He thinks he should feel like he's betraying them, but he just can't. Not when the world is in balance, not when blinding smiles are on his either side - hell, even in front of him, bless George - he just can't feel guilty. He loves two people, sod it. His love is as powerful as the sea, as a Kings army, as a mothers devotion, or a fathers hope. He loves them for such different reasons and qualities, yet in such similar ways. He loves them, and George, and Ringo (God, who he's missing now more than he has in a long time, gonna have to give him a call, that one), and his children, and he just loves the  _ world_.

His lips separate from another's, and he sits back in his chair, feeling content. He looks at George then, who's looking quite content himself to be sitting there alone yet among friends, always such an old soul, an observer. Jokingly, Paul says, "Would you like a go, as well?"

George just shakes his head with a feign look of disgust on his face. "'m good, here."

Paul smiles in reply, then suddenly a loud yawn shakes his whole body.

John sighs, 'Ah, yawning. How mundane.'

"Shut up," Paul smiles sleepily.

Linda looks out the window and looks back at Paul with an expression he knows all too well.

"No, no, you can't leave yet." Paul shakes his head, hands taking that of Linda's. "Please."

'Oh my love, this was not the first hello nor our last goodbye,' says coos.

"Stay here," he bargains, "I need you."

'If she stays who's going to look after me and make sure I don't get into any trouble? You know, haunting people and all that, it's tempting,' John teases, shooting Linda a playful wink. Paul doesn't remember a time of them getting on so well before. Not even any jealousy is detected between them now. It's odd seeing them interact like that, like friends that understand each other in a way that makes Paul feel like the outsider. Suddenly he sympathizes with George and Ringo, must have been downright annoying to put up with that for so long. Still, he's happy, seeing the two of them holding each other up as if they needed it. Perhaps the other side does put things in a different light.

'Afraid he's right.' She chuckles, bringing Paul out of his thoughts, 'He's quite the handful.' She brings Paul's hands up to her face, kissing them gently.

"You can all stay," Paul gives one last plea, looking at George for support.

'Your world can't offer us much, nor can we to you.' He pats Paul's leg.

"You give me everything!" Paul retaliates.

'No, we give suspicion and evidence that you to belong in a loony bin,' John snorts, pinching his left side in a not so gentle way, hell at Paul's age that could very well leave a bruise .

Paul jumps but doesn't pay much attention to it, "Don't care." He mumbles.

Linda gives him a peck on the lips, lasting for only a second and an eternity too short. 'We'll meet again.' She stands up and smiles down at him.

John takes his hand and therefore his attention, 'Lady's right on that one,' he stands up as well, then leans down and kisses the edge of Paul's mouth, then his closed eyelid, 'Until we meet again, dear Paul McCharmly. Oh, and no more tantrums in bathrooms.'

Paul nods his head in obedience and turns to say his last goodbye. George's eyes are doing that gleaming and glistening thing again, mouth turned up. 'Goodbye Paul,' he wraps his arms around his friend. Paul puts his face into his hair and breathes in, and he realizes he can smell nothing but air. 'You know, I would tell you to give a wink and a nod to Ringo for me, but maybe you should just keep that to yourself.' He finishes, releasing Paul.

They are all standing, looking down at Paul with faces of happiness, and Paul can't help but believe that they'll, indeed, meet again someday.

They take their leave in a blink that Paul soon regrets taking. One moment there, the next gone. Paul feels himself sink a little despite their pleas for his happiness. Looking down, he notices his glass that started all this on the floor, with just a couple sips left. Sighing, he picks up the glass and takes the shot, his throat burning just a little.

Looking to the window, he notices that the sun is now shining proudly on the horizon. If he listens close enough, he can hear birds beginning to make their route to wake up everyone in the neighborhood. He steps outside and takes a breath. No longer feeling the need to wear his robe, he sheds it and lets the dewy morning capture him. Breathing in, he feels anew, breathing out, he lets past sorrows go.

Nancy would be up in about 15 minutes, he thinks, knowing her schedule quite well. He slowly makes his way back inside and up the stairs, back to the room he shares with his fiancee. He quietly walks back to the bed, settling down and enveloped in the blue sheets once more. They're really not that bad. He reconsiders his earlier hatred for them and decides that they're just fine as well. Just fine, and give him the comfort he needs these days. Blue is new, but blue is warm.

Paul turns his body and wraps his arms around the one next to him as she immediately turns to fit her face into his neck. He gently rubs her shoulder, letting her wake up in her own time.

She hums contently, says, "That can't be good for your health."

Paul raises any eyebrow though she can't see it, "What can't?"

"The liquor in your system, especially before 8 am." She gives a small, sleepy laugh opening her eyes.

"How on earth did you know that?" He smiles back.

"Can smell it on your breath, I have a special gift for that sort of stuff," she shrugs. Never one for staying completely still, she untangles herself from Paul slowly and stretches, sitting up, probably already planning her day ahead. Paul leans in to give her a kiss, but she keeps her hands on his chest and pushes him back slightly with a giggle. "No, no, you're not kissing me with your breath smelling like that."

His face lands in the pillow next to him and he snorts with a chuckle, his voice coming out muffled as he says, "I knew it."

"What was that?" He hears her ask from the bathroom.

"Oh nothing," he simply says, lying on his back.

He looks up to see her smiling down at him from where she's standing. "You seem like you're in a good mood today." She pokes his left side gently, and he jolts a little because for some reason, it's a bit sore.

He settles again and shrugs with a smile on his own face, "Just feel like today's going to be one of those days, that's all."

**Author's Note:**

> Something I wrote years ago. Can you tell the state I was in when I wrote the beginning compared to when I wrote the end? The true birthchild of too much wine and the decision to watch an old Beatles interview. I remember this being really therapeutic. Also, who can spot the Bill Murray quote?


End file.
